SM owns Twilight, of course. Thank you Jennifer for all your help, and ElleCC and Twimarti from PTB for straightening out my comma issues. For explanations concerning some specific Swedish things, see A/N below for links!
As the sun rises, the birds start to sing again, waking me from the meditative state I've been in for the last couple of hours. My stomach growls, and I decide to walk until the sun is warming the air before pausing for breakfast. I didn't pack any food and begin to collect whatever edibles I come across on my way. I end up with wall fern roots, raspberries, some late wood strawberries, and a handful of blackberries that ripened earlier than usual thanks to the warm summer. The sun has risen above the tree tops, and I sit down on a warm stone on the side of the road. The berries aren't much of a breakfast, but they are sweet and give me enough energy to keep going. I take a short detour to a small creek I've heard purling close to the road for the last few miles, drink the fresh water, and clean myself. I remain sitting with my feet in the cold water for a while, watching it swirl around them, trying to empty my mind of thoughts of Maria. My stomach churns at the memories of her, and I imagine throwing them in the water and watching them disappear, hoping they won't ever return. I take my feet out of the cold water and lie down on the moss to rest while I wait for the sun to dry my feet.
The creaking sound from a cart and the snorting sounds of a horse wake me up from my slumber, and I gather my belongings and hurry out on the road. It's a farm-boy with a small cart full of potatoes, beets, and carrots on his way to Järvsö, and he lets me ride on top of them. It's a lumpy and bumpy ride, but it's better than walking. The farm-boy isn't very talkative, and I am grateful for the hours of silence. I don't feel much like chatting and spend the day staring straight ahead at the winding gravel road. Once we get close to Järvsö, he lets me off by the first crossroad. He offers me a couple of bunches of carrots, but when I try to pay for them, he just shakes his head and waves me off, telling me to save my coins for later.
As he steers his cart away, I scan my surroundings. I'm in the outskirts of the small village. The gravelly road diverges into two smaller ones that probably lead to a few farms or old soldier crofts, and a large road leading to the center of Järvsö. The fields that surround the roads are lined with common wooden fences: poles of young firs leaning with the thicker ends against the ground and the thin ends tied to vertical poles with withes. I examine the corner poles searching for carved hobo signs to tell me about the nearby farms. On my left side, a circle with two arrows across points to the left, which means there is nothing but hostility to be found down that road. To the right, an encircled cross tells me that people may give you food but not money. Money I have, but I need some food. I start walking down the right road, hoping it won't be long until I reach a friendly household.
I wash my hands and face in the first stream I come across and comb my hair with my fingers so I won't make an unnecessarily unpleasant impression. Another crossroad comes up, and I search for signs carved into the trees by the road. The moment I find it, I know where to go: the circle has a line that runs straight across from bottom to top, then makes an angle above it that points to the left. A small croft is partially visible down that road, hidden behind some birch trees. A couple of goats are tied to one of them and are nibbling on the grass between. As I get closer, I see some hens strutting around in a small front yard where the grass has been cut down. A shovel and a hay-fork are propped against the wall next to a scythe. The little house is surrounded by a fence, and I pause at the entryway. The sign for "food but not money" is carved in the gatepost, so I know I've come to the right place, but I still hesitate. This doesn't look like a wealthy household, and it feels wrong to ask for food here. They probably need it as much as I do.
Before I've had the time to turn around and leave, the door opens and a middle-aged woman peeks out. When she sees me, she opens the door and calls to me, asking about my name and intentions. I feel my ears redden as I ask if she has some food to spare. I realize it sounds like I'm begging for food, and I don't like how inferior it makes me feel. I quickly add that I'll pay for it. I even take one of my money pouches out and hold it up for her to see. She laughs and invites me to the porch, then disappears inside. The goats eye me warily and bleat when I get closer, but quiet and return to their grazing once I've passed. Moments later, the woman returns with a piece of bread and some dried meat. She accepts the coin I offer her, then waves me off. The homey sounds of cackling hens and bleating goats follow me as I walk away, and I decide that when I get to America and build a house of my own, I'll have both hens and goats, and maybe even a sheep or two, for the wool.
Once I'm back at the main road, I sit down to eat. The food I received is just enough to fill my stomach for the evening, and I finish with one of the carrots. I realize I'll have to buy more food before I continue my way south. I didn't think to bring one of the birch bark knapsacks we use to pack our food in when we have long days at the fields, and I decide to ask around once I get to Järvsö to see if someone knows where to get one.
Järvsö turns out to be livelier than I thought it would be. I had expected people to be at home preparing their evening meals, but the marketplace is still full of people. I end up with a birch bark basket instead of a knapsack, which is more difficult to carry but comes with a wooden lid to use as a table. This limits my way of travelling to riding in carts and carriages, instead of simply walking, but it's probably for the best, as I don't have an extra pair of shoes if I wear out the ones I have on.
I set to fill my new purchase with supplies. I try to find dry food as much as possible, since it's easier to carry, but can't resist a dozen sweet apples offered to me by a pretty fair-haired girl. Her eyes widen as I take out one of my leather pouches and search for the correct amount of coins to pay her. Her smile tells me she's impressed by my so-called wealth, but I'm almost offended by her interest. I know she wouldn't have glanced twice at me if she hadn't seen my money, because my appearance far from matches the money in my pouch.
I still have several days to travel until I reach Uppsala, and I can't count on being lucky enough to find people to ride with right away. I suspect quite some time will be spent waiting by the road. I briefly consider staying at the inn during the night but decide against it. After all, the weather is nice enough for sleeping outside, and I could spare the money for less fortunate nights. A spot under a fir tree close to the road will give enough shelter from the morning dew, and after rolling out my tattered old mattress, I fall asleep.
Dreams of Maria, her face distorted and shrewd, haunt me in my sleep, and I wake up still tired. After putting the mattress and my bindle into the basket, I carry it to the road and sit down to wait. A hay-cart shows up after a while and pauses just long enough for me to haul myself and the basket up in the back and sink down in the pile of hay. The smell reminds me of nights with Maria in the barn, but I force the memories away and keep my eyes on the sky. The day passes. One hay-cart is exchanged for another, and then a potato-cart follows. I barely notice the villages I pass. Some names I recognize, some I don't.
Vallsta. Arbrå. Bollnäs.
Sometimes we stop to drink and feed the horses, and I mechanically put food in my own mouth, chew it, and swallow, not really bothering to care what it is and how it tastes. A night is spent half asleep in the back of a postal carriage, and the next day passes much like the last.
Kilafors. Tönnebro. Ockelbo.
Hay-carts, potato-carts, postal carriages. Waiting by the road in between. Eating and drinking, but not really tasting the food. Replenishing my supplies with whatever is available. Gathering berries when I come across them. Sleeping, but not really getting a reprieve from the scornful and mean Maria who is inhabiting my dreams. Another day, another set of villages to barely notice as they pass by.
Gävle. Sandviken. Årsunda.
The billowing hills that still resemble my home district are being replaced by a flatter landscape, with yellow fields stretching far on both sides of the road, sometimes interrupted by dark and thick woods that appear to be closing in on me, threatening to swallow me and never let me out again. That night I dream of Skogsrået, the siren of the woods. Her long, red hair is falling down over her full breasts, and the triangle of hair between her legs looks smooth like fox fur. She whispers to me, and I follow her as she slowly backs into the deep forest. She stops, and I close in on her, suddenly naked with my erection pointing at her, bigger than ever. I know I shouldn't—she traps the souls of men by sleeping with them—but I can't help myself. Just when I reach out to touch her, she giggles and turns around. All I see before she disappears is her fox tail and her back, hollow, like a log that's been carved into a tray. When I turn around to find my way back, every tree looks the same. No matter where I go, I end up at the spot where she left me, and I realize I'll never get out again.
I wake up at dawn, panting with fear, and all I want is to get out of that forest. I quickly assemble my things and keep a steady pace until I hear the sounds of horses and an early postal carriage. The coachman tells me we're not far from my destination and that we'll get there well before lunch.
Österfärnebo. Östervåla.
The trees thin out, and then, once again, I see the fields, only this time they are interrupted by strange gatherings of mounds scattered across the landscape, and I wonder if those are the Viking graves that I've heard Master Albert talk about. Then I finally see it: Uppsala.
Uppsala.
I have trouble believing I'm actually here. The cathedral is huge, larger than anything I've ever seen, with two bulky towers in one end. A river is cutting through the village, and we steer towards the bridge. Uppsala is getting closer by the minute, and I notice the difference between myself and the people we pass by. They look less like country folks and more like patrons, only with a slightly different style compared to Maria and Master Albert. The men's suits are a little different, the hats are a bit higher, and the shoes are definitely shinier. The ladies' dresses are a little bigger and more brightly colored, their hairdos more complicated and their bonnets have more frill on them than I'm used to. Looking down at my own tattered clothes, I realize that the first thing to do in Uppsala is to find somewhere to wash up and then get a new set of clothes.
The town has a mixture of houses: wood houses that are one to two stories high, and higher houses made of bricks and stones that reach up to four stories. I've never seen brick houses that large, and I wonder how far you can see from the top floor.
When a family comes out of the doors of one of the houses, I realize that people are actually living there. I can't imagine the amount of money needed to be able to live like that. I bet they have more servants than Master Albert. Maybe one day I'll be that rich and have my own servants. One thing is certain, though; if I ever get any servants, I'll treat them right.
I wander through the cobbled streets, my now-empty birch basket under my left arm and the bindle stick over my right shoulder. Fashion hasn't been important to me, seeing as working as a farmhand requires durable clothes, not fancy. As I study what people wear here, I'm relieved to find that the options for men are quite limited. I enter the first clothing shop I see and opt for two pairs of high-waisted trousers, three white shirts, a vest, a cravat, a long coat, and a top hat. The salesman tries to sell me a cane as well, but to be honest, I don't see the point of that. It's not like I'm an old man, and I'm certainly not disabled.
As I look at my newly acquired clothes, I realize I've got a problem. There's no way I can carry all of this with my bindle stick, and I'll need to replenish my food supply as well. The birch basket has been a big enough problem on its own, and if I'm to add a trunk of clothes to that, I'll need some kind of cart to pull them on. The salesman offers to put aside the clothes for me while I go search for a cart, and he recommends a shop around the corner that sells trunks and travel caskets.
Finding a cart turns out to be a bit of a problem. I have to walk all the way back over the bridge to the farmer's market and finally convince a boy selling turnips to let me buy his once he's done for the day. To speed up the process, I volunteer to help him, and we manage to get rid of all his turnips both quickly and at a good price. The charm of the two of us combined sends off at least a dozen maids and housekeepers of all ages with a giggle and a blush on their cheeks.
After paying my debt for the cart, I begin to fill my birch basket with more food. The farmer's market is a lot bigger than the ones I've seen back home. There is fruit, both dried and fresh, and lots of vegetables. I find different kinds of meat and fish: fresh, salted, or dried. Some of the stalls sell pickled vegetables, jam, and fruit syrup, some sell bread, and some sell grains and flour. I settle for mostly dried and salted food, since it weighs less and keeps better, and once again I fail to resist the fresh apples.
The turnip boy shows me a place to bathe that is upstream of the river floating through Uppsala. I park the cart by the shore before I take my shoes off and jump into the water, still fully clothed. The water rinses the dirt off my body, and my hair goes from dirty hay-colored to shiny blond again. With water up to my neck, I remove one piece of clothing at the time, rubbing them carefully and getting rid of the stains. For the first time since the night I left, I take my cock in my hands. I think of the farm-girls and maids we've been flirting with this afternoon, and after a quick glance around, I start stroking myself. Smiling faces and ample bosoms pass through my mind, but it doesn't take long before they change and turn into someone with Maria's face and the fox tail and hollow back of Skogsrået. The image makes my erection wilt instantly.
Once I consider myself clean enough, I spread my wet clothes over the cart. The sun dries my body, and it's not long before I can dress myself in my second set of clothes. The clean flax clothes feel raw against my skin, but I know they will soften once I've worn then for a few hours. I make sure to dry my feet thoroughly before putting my shoes back on—having damp feet is asking for blisters. I don't want to risk getting infections of any kind before I get to America, because I've heard they don't let people into America if they are sick.
The walk back to town is refreshing, and even though the cart is a bit unwieldy, it still helps a lot. My grumbling stomach reminds me that I haven't eaten much, and as I stop by the store to buy the trunk for my new clothes, the salesman points out an inn down the road with hearty food for a fairly good prize. Once I've got all my new clothes neatly folded in the trunk on my cart, I take the chance to fill my stomach with warm rabbit stew, my first warm meal in several days. The fact that I've arrived at the first milestone on this journey makes me feel like celebrating, and I order a bottle of mead.
As I sit there, basking in the afternoon sun, I listen to the people around me. Their dialect is different from mine, and some words and expressions are new to me. My eavesdropping tells me that the train station isn't on this side of the river; I'll have to go back over the bridge once again. It seems like the ticket office closes when the bells on the cathedral strike eight, and I remember hearing six of them not long ago. I pay for my food, gather my things, and head for the train station.
I'm lucky—the next train to Stockholm leaves early the next day. It feels unsafe to leave my cart unattended in the luggage room at a hotel, and sleeping somewhere in an alley in town seems even more stupid. I sneak down to the railway yard and find a spot between two empty cattle cars that seems safe enough. I spend the rest of the evening on the cart, leaned against the trunk with the bindle under my head as a pillow. My knife and a piece of wood serves as a time-killer, and the knowledge that I've gotten this far makes me feel almost hopeful.
Once the morning comes, I stretch and limber up my stiff body before pulling the cart to the platform. A few apples, a piece of bread, and water from a drinking fountain are enough for breakfast, and while I wait to board, I watch the people filling up the platform. Most of them have one or two trunks like I do, some have a large load and servants managing them, and some have nothing but the clothes they wear.
I'm excited for the train ride. It's the first time I've been on anything that moves faster than a horse and isn't powered by living creatures. I notice that the wealthier passengers travel in a different car than the rest of us, and they don't look as suspicious of the train as some of the poorer people. I figure if the rich aren't afraid, then why should I be? I'm made of tougher material than them, anyway.
After loading my stuff onto the train, I pick a seat close to the luggage storage. I keep the pouches of money on me, afraid someone will see them and steal them from me. As the train shakes into motion, I sink down on the seat and watch the landscape fly by. It's going a lot faster than I thought it would, and I quickly learn that keeping my eyes in the distance helps against the nausea.
After a while I fall asleep, and the two-and-a-half hour ride is over before I know it. It's still well before lunch when I arrive in Stockholm. Back on the farm, we would be sitting down for morning coffee right about now, with several hours of work already behind us, while the gentlefolk would be having a late breakfast, still yawning.
It takes a while for me to find my way at the station. It's so much larger than the one in Uppsala, and there are so many people scurrying around that it's hard to see where I'm supposed to go. The timetable for the Stockholm-Göteborg train is fairly well adjusted to the Uppsala-Stockholm arrivals, which means that once I've found my way to the ticket office, I don't have to wait for long until I'm back on a train again. I manage to get a spot next to a window again and lean my head toward the cool glass as we start to move.
The landscape I see is different than the one I've passed through on my way down here. It's not as billowy as I'm used to, the forests are brighter and not as dense, and there are more leafy trees than firs and pines. This time, the train ride lasts for several hours, and there is not much to do other than to eat some and then try to sleep. The people I share a compartment with are solemn and quiet, and I can tell that a lot of them have left friends, family, and loved ones behind. The lack of close relationships in my life seems pretty convenient to me now. There isn't much for me to mourn.
As we wheel in at the station in Göteborg, I see the ocean for the first time in my life. It's bigger than anything I've ever seen. Small islands are scattered across it, but farther out there is nothing. Nothing but ocean and the horizon. I shudder involuntarily, uncomfortable by the sight. I'm a good swimmer, but if the ship sinks, there will be nothing for me to swim to. Of all the deaths I've imagined for myself, drowning wasn't one. I realize there is a very real possibility I won't get across that ocean alive.
I shake off the thoughts of death, take my cart, and follow the line of people moving away from the train station. Most of them seem to be headed the same way, and I soon realize why. The queue is winding halfway around the block from the Wilson Line ticket office, moving forward at an incredibly slow pace. I sit down on the cart next to my trunk and my birch basket, resting my legs for a while. Most of the people queueing with me are families or married couples, a few single men like me, and even fewer single women. The married men are glaring at everyone laying their eyes on their wives and daughters, sending out clear messages that they are off limits and closely monitored. The single men are acting cocky, trying to establish some sort of hierarchy before they're even on the boat. The single women try to make themselves invisible, plain, and uninteresting. I take part in nothing. I just sit there, waiting.
It's well after dinner time when I'm finally at the ticket window.
"En enkel biljett till Hull," I say to the sullen salesman, put the money on the counter, and get a piece of paper in return. One single ticket to Hull. I thank him, put the ticket in the breast-pocket of my vest, take the cart, and leave. I pull my cart back to the train station and into one of the waiting rooms. The boat doesn't leave until tomorrow, and I don't feel like sleeping outside one more night. I have no idea if I'm allowed to sleep in here, but I figure since it's a waiting room, and I'm most certainly waiting, no one can possibly argue with that. Besides, who's to know I'm waiting for a boat, not a train? I find a water fountain and fill a bottle of water, eat some dried meat and an apple, and fall asleep on a bench with my luggage secured to my arm with a rope. That way, I'll feel if anyone tries to run away with it.
Nothing disturbs my sleep, and when the morning comes, I feel more rested than I have in a long time. The noises from the docks tell me that it's time to leave. I force my way through the crowd of people waiting for the boat to call at the wharf. Some are crying, hugging their families goodbye, and some are elated and expectant, looking forward to their new lives. I'm neither. I have no one to say goodbye to and nothing waiting for me when I arrive.
I'm alone, and I feel empty.
A/N I know some people will wonder about Skogsrået, our siren of the woods. Here you find information about her (remove the blanks): en . wikipedia wiki / Huldra
Pictures that show her hollow back: maskdarlequin . deviantart art / Huldra-s-Allure-304826173
and: www . theroundtableonline wp-content / uploads / 2010 / 02 / huldra700 . jpg
For those of you who were wondering about the Kille-game, info is found here: en . wikipedia wiki / Gnav